... about a CD when the first song rhymes "heart" with "a real fine place to star-ar-ar-ar-art," and the fractured syllables aren't melissmatic; they're closer to a bark. And the song builds to the realization that the singer-songwriter in question likes to be free. It's the work of a local who likely has found someone with money to turn her coffeehouse strum songs into piano ballads, breathy voice and all. Is it kinder to pretend it didn't exist and move on, to anatomize her failures of art and taste, or to say banal niceties and let time and cosmos handle this one.
It's tempting to go with the latter, but American Idol's tryout weeks are loaded with people who likely received that sort of reception for the duration of their singing careers, and it's only when they tryout that they discover they're not the stars-to-be they thought they were. And they respond with angry denial. Simon, Randy and Paula don't know music; their churches and family members and friends and lawyers know music.
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